I am about to be vigorously ungracious at length. And then I will cheer the fuck up and, oh, I don’t know, hang out my laundry or something.
I was pootling about in the blogosphere (for once. Being depressed and hacked off with everything and also (legitimate excuse bit) having my coursework to do of an evening, I have become World’s Worst Bloggy Friend). And some poor innocent woman (no, I shall not link to the blog) was quite rightly and deservedly having a good old moan about how hard it was to still be childless, and how ‘everyone’ had overtaken her and some were even lapping her, and how very long she’d been blogging for.
I nodded. I empathised. I looked at her archives.
She’d been blogging since 2008.
So I took my upper-cut to the jaw like a brave little boxer and hustled myself off before I typed something regrettable. Because, oh, come on, two whole years of this infertility crap? Unacceptable. No one should have to deal with it for two whole years. No one. And certainly no one should be dealing with it to a chorus of Pain Olympians cluttering up the comment box.
But (but but but) I’ve been blogging since 2006. And I was trying to get pregnant for a year before that (she snivelled). I was 30 when H finally took a deep breath and threw away the condoms (I’d already thrown away the pill months before-hand). 30. Does that sound too old? Does that sound like I left it too long while we vapoured about having proper jobs and financial security and a female parent who wasn’t a colossal mess of PTSD and self-loathing after the Almighty Fuck-Up that was her PhD (one third of one, in box in study. Ask me no questions.)?
Anyway, by my 30th birthday, we were freshly married and ready to have kids.
By my 31st, we were worried that since coming off the pill, I hadn’t had a single, not one, period. But hey, we were supposed to try for a year before the NHS took any interest at all (in retrospect, I think I should have drop-kicked the smug doctor’s lap-top out of the surgery window at this point. Seriously, when I approached her I had not had a period for EIGHT MONTHS. Go and away and try for a full year, indeed. Stupid bitch).
By the 32nd, I was waiting for surgery, because my periods had reappeared and decided to make up for their prolonged vacation by going all-bleeding-all-the-time, also, jaysus, the cramps. (I turned out to have polyps and masses of scar-tissue from the surgery that cost me my left ovary, back when I was 18. Arse). No baby, no prospect of a baby for months and months.
I spent my 33rd birthday miscarrying.
By my 34th, we were trying Clomid again, but it was making me anovulatory (oops), also desperate and frantic. I was sure I’d never ever be pregnant again.
It’s my 35th in May. I’ve lost at least two (possibly three. No, I can’t let it go. I will fret about the possible chemical in August for bloody ever, so there) more pregnancies, and I have been diagnosed with adenomyosis, on top of the PCOS and *shudder* Habitual Aborter label. It has been the most colossal fucker of a year.
And I am still childless.
And so many of my darling bloggy friends have kids now. And so few of them have none. And of those few, not many at all have been blogging as long as I have.
I just feel so helplessly, stupidly, far behind. We’re not even doing aggressive, bring-it-on treatment. We’re just flailing along in everyone’s wake, getting bitten repeatedly on the arse by the loss piranha. When I read of people trying for number two, I feel left behind. When I read of people reaching the end of their Family-Building Quest, I feel left behind. Even when I read of IVF consults, and needles and pills and scans and such, I feel left behind. (For us, IVF is on hold until we get some kind of answer to the why miscarriages? question, even if said answer is ‘buggered if we know. Carry on.’ I mean, why spend thousands of poundingtons, and go through all the injections and drugs and exploding-ovary worries and giant-needle-through-vagina, just to lose any poor little fecker of an embro unwise enough to touch down in Cute Ute, Certified Uterus of Death and Destruction?).
It’s making me a shitty-bad commentator, as well. I wish my bloggy friends very well, and I still read, and I care deeply about how their lives are panning out. But I have nothing to say anymore. What the hell can I say to someone who is pregnant with their second, or having breast-feeding woes, or worrying about shutting up the baby-factory for good? What the hell can I say that isn’t insensitive, or stupid, or wailingly self-centred? When all I want to say is you’ve run so very, very far ahead of me now. And even as I think it, I know I am being unfair. And ungracious. Did I mention ungracious? Blech. I don’t care for me so very much right now. Talk about head up own bottom.
I did say I was going to be ungracious, didn’t I? Let it never be said I do not live up to expectations.
Anyway. Enough of this. I promised the laundry I would do it. Lucky laundry.